John Layfield tosses his car keys on the kitchen counter, collapsing to his knees against the island. Subsequent to another night of wide-ranged rejection, an additional weeks worth of to add onto the calendar, divorcing his now ex-wife had been the biggest mistake of his life.
He persuades himself not to shed tears over this, as in the end it would not make a difference. Maybe it really was true, Ron, and everyone else, had been correct - money certainly wasn't going to buy happiness; at least…. not yet it hadn't, and up until a month ago, it actually had.
Decisively picking himself up from the floor he heads in to the bathroom, going straight for the medicine cabinet and popping the safety cap off of the first prescription his fingers meet; it wasn't like he hadn't done this incalculable times before, but something about the morals of his fixation began to embed guilt into him, but even that didn't make any modification to his "perfect life." It didn't change another night to be passed out on the bathroom floor or where ever it was the overdose left him.
With a few drinks the idea of himself simply "caring" for once would go away. He smirks at the visual in his head of his liquor cabinet as he strips out of his blazer, catching a glimpse of himself in the full length mirror while it slides from his arm and to the floor and his lip curls in disgust at the sight of himself. At his size, and age, it was no surprise that he was getting rejected relentlessly.
Sitting out on his rooftop deck with the company of a bottle of Macallan he wonders what went horribly wrong in his head to fall for another man, and condemn himself to hell - after all, he was from Texas, and considered himself a good Christian man his entire life. There wasn't even a way to write it off as having any womanly characteristics that man had that he could be looking for in a woman.
Sure, the guy had beautiful black hair to his shoulders… and beautiful legs, with that? A beard and an eat-shit attitude… among other things… Other amazing things, breath-taking things; things he hadn't ever seen before, with piercings in places he'd never even imagined you could put a ring through.
John swirls the scotch in the glass before it meets his lips. He's well aware it's one of the most expensive liquors in his cabinet, and just that makes him think about the man twelve years his junior. The man isn't anything special, and yet, he is everything special in John's eyes. He's a raunchy, anarchistic and his body is littered with tattoos. Clearly, he's made a name for himself, which states accurately what he is - a Punk.
Nevertheless he is still poor or middle-class… and lives in an apartment in Chicago that John has staked out before, with his best friend Ron beside him, who figured that the Jewish fellow Punk shares it with isn't a love interest while he watched John break into pieces like a brainless teenager.
Eager to please, he hasn't figured out why, but figures with his persistence, that eventually Punk will find purpose of taking him up solely because he has the money for anything in the world. Soon, he'll become of use, and his money will buy happiness once more. What's not to use?
He assures himself with the next glass full he pours that he has never failed, and will not fail at this. He doesn't know how, or when, and the thoughts of kidnapping and killing have toyed around in his mind - though drastic, he knows he could never really take such actions as he turns into the perfect stalker. However, stalking is easily deniable - as he is just head over heels, and hoping this will pass.
Now with two ex-wives, the latter of which he had married out of the hurriedness of just wanting somebody there and winding up miserable - but not alone. He'd fallen so hard for this man he had divorced his beautiful, blonde, successful wife on nothing more than a hope. An addiction from just one night hardly spent in the same room.
He scored that woman big time. She was the best thing that could happen to him - she was the one that settled for him. He had money, was fresh off a divorce, at a time when he needed someone, and he was richer than ever; she knew it, what other reasons were there? He wasn't anything in the looks department, after all.
With a bad back, his weight, and middle age beating him down, being in a cemetery looks more comforting than going through the motions of his perfect every day life. John isn't afraid of death, or the idea of suicide - but the idea of failing, and waking up again to another new day…
Fatigue settles in faster as he rises to his feet, grabbing the bottle and his glass as he heads back inside. Falling asleep outside would have just made him look like an idiot - especially when the maid came in the morning to clean up after him.
He watches several of the lights in the city's buildings surrounding his penthouse go out; people that had families and loved ones to go home to.
Back in the living room, he wishes his ex-wife hadn't taken all their wedding photos with her. She didn't really like them displayed, anyways. He tries to remember her as more of a room mate, and pretends she wasn't so beautiful and that she wasn't too good for him; it never works, but he'll always try.
Still, even with her in his thoughts, she's easily replaced with the tattooed Goth guy he's stricken with.
Remembering himself, however, is the easiest way to realize everything is just unobtainable.